From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
An instinctual push and pull, when the mountains and snow called to him, on stark absolution, on absent demolition, on the secrets and devouring, all-consuming desecration. His head spun and the wind churned against him, and within the evening sprawl he didn’t care – like memories bounding and haunting, telling him to go further into the chill, into the splendor, into the air until he was a part of the backdrop, the surroundings, the summits and its plummeting rock.
The fever raged and he might’ve too, had summer evenings not reminded him of twilight endeavors, of songs spurned into offerings, of galaxies beyond his power, of constellations etched and sketched and times where he wasn’t so forlorn. A choking, grasping, rotting noose, until he turned towards the snow, and sat within its threshold.
Fire; would the goddess of the stars want to be anointed and beheld in flames? Deimos glanced upwards and wondered, body not upright, tilting and swaying, spine barely holding any semblance of his entity, his strength together – Zuriel watching nervously, following because someone needed to watch, to guard, while he lost and spiraled and fell apart at the seams.
The inferno came without any other thought, inherent, from his father and bloodlines and the pulsing, pervading stretch of elements – blistering from his hands and then stretching towards the midnight sky, on the plumes of his breath, on the incantations riddled in his sanction. The Sword conjured, sculpted, and wove pictures in the conflagration – bright, bursting stars, their pointed ends sizzling in cinders and embers, dancing in the skyline, twisting into celestial, cosmic particles – so that they might reach the atmosphere.
Loren needed to make an offering for Safrin. Or had he already done that? With his head as foggy as it was, he simply couldn't remember. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry with the gods, especially the star lady.
So he'd padded towards the shrine as a lion with some of his own fur in his mouth, which had taken him far longer than intended, since he kept getting lost. Astra had to nudge him more than a few times to get him going in the right direction. However, as light and heat and fire rose into the night, he picked up his pace.
Skidding to a halt he pulled in air through his mouth. Then he coughed as a few hairs caught in his throat. When his fit subsided, he sent a thought towards Deimos Flames. Pretty flames. The Firebrand glanced at the Sword. Sup Moose? The healer licked his lips.
Moving forward, he held out a paw towards the blaze. Then he looked at the other man. They want to dance for the star lady. Indeed, the faces he could hear speaking to him in the fire said exactly that.
'Normally', offerings for gods wasn't something Chuy would ever partake in. From a world where such offerings historically involved human sacrifice… he just couldn't give the old religions of Earth the time of day.
But Chuy was living a new normal now. A normal filled with grief and sorrow, loss and despair, where the world kept turning and he just tried to keep up. Where gods were real and he could meet them, interact and see the change they provoked wherever they touched.
He didn't know what to bring for an offering. Didn't know what to do, how to make an offering. Or even when - could the herald receive the offering if it was meant to be made under her stars when the stars barely shone during a Halo evening?
The great beast walked, antlers decorated with moss - it was the best this form could manage, and the Chief hoped that it was more the thought of an offering that counted than the actual offering. But what would he know? Mist coiled in the air before his nostrils.
He wandered, to nowhere in particular, simply growing used to this form and wanting to test its endurance over distance. Then there was fire, and thoughts of the offering dissolved.
'Hey, I'm the moose here,' he called out, picking up a few of Loren's words - like being on the edge of the range of a radio transmission, he could just make it out, but he moved swiftly into range to make his own greeting. Internally, he sighed - both of them must have slipped past the guards at the gates (easy when one had access to various shifts, or intimidating magic).
Why is it always fire? he couldn't help but think, as he observed the great tower of flames rise up from the man. 'Tell me about Safrin,' he reached out across the bond to both of the men, genuine curiosity and awe evident, for now - the concern, the quiet urgency to get them back to safety in the Citadel, all the rest, was kept to himself.
Even without an audience, the Sword would’ve persisted. Mesmerizing and pleasing to the eye, to the warmth it exuded, to the power and demolition contained, the flames spiraled, forming more designs, more pinnacles, more towers to accompany the celestial stars. Laden from within were layers of cosmic dust and seething constellations, as if they’d all been borne from the undulations of conflagrations, brought to life from distant plains. Within them, he could see a whole host of things, eyes widening as they shimmered and swayed, as they promised and beseeched, as the fire never wronged him, never unwound him, never lost him, never abandoned him.
He gave little thought to those suddenly there – appearing suddenly, as if they too had been brought forth from the rising inferno, tilting his study, and thinking nothing of Loren’s voice coming from a lion, or Chulane’s coming from a moose. The embers only rose taller, straighter, and then flickered down like something had burst, a stream of meteors or showers, christened in moonlight, in vibrant crimson, in brilliant orange. “An offering,” he noted to nothing or no one in particular, nodding at Loren’s insinuation, making the flames do just that – dance, dance, dance, curling and coiling and contorting. “Any requests?” For what, he couldn’t be sure – his mind was altered into the keening blaze, the smoldering, hallowed proportions, riveted to its edges.
Then Chulane’s statement met his skull, and he thought little of his experiences with gods, because then there might be prowess or bitterness attached, depending on the circumstances. Only his booming voice echoed and followed, between the flames, eyes narrowing. “What do you want to know?”
At Deimos' words, Loren remembered his own gift. Padding forward, skirting close to the fire, he spat the furry clump from his mouth onto the altar. Though the hairs were damp, they glittered, a metallic gold that reflected the flames.
Shaking his head and his mane, the lion moved towards the man and the moose. Glancing between the two of them, the healer made a hacking sound in the back of his throat. He's a moose too. It was entirely unclear which of the other two men the Firebrand was referring to.
Make them dance with the sun! To coax it to stay for the dark, he responded to Deimos. Chuffing at the vet's question, Loren settled onto the ground. She likes shiny things and pretty people. His response came on the heels of the Sword's question.
It was a magnificent display, one the Chief admired from a wary distance. What a sight did they make; a great looming moose, a majestic mythical lion and a tower of a man, silhouetted in the evening twilight against a great pillar of fire. Before now, ,Chulane would probably have not been able to be moved to feeling spiritual, or grateful, or genuinely wanting to give offerings to a deity - but with what he had endured so far, what he had seen and become… it felt right, and fitting, and despite the urgency of the illness, he found himself happy to stay here with them.
At least they were under the illusion of safety here, not bringing themselves or others into harm's way, making an offering to the herald of life and starlight.
Bowing his great rack of antlers, he motioned to throw the moss he had gathered there into the flames, watching in wonder as they were taken up by the magical pillar, feeling a sense of quiet awe and respect for all the motion stood for. 'Pretty people?' he asked of Loren, though perhaps he should've just let it be. Then he considered Deimos' request for clarification more seriously, mulling over the question in his mind before letting it sound across the bond.
'What is she like?' He'd heard she was like starlight, like galaxies, and he struggled to comprehend it without seeing it for himself. 'What does it mean to be the herald of a God?'
Moose and men and lions; it didn’t matter to the Sword, who had already concocted fire and brimstone and wanted nothing more than the embers to flare into eternal depths. To seethe in their power. To pay tribute to their contortions. To watch the rise and fall of tempests and voids and winds, coiling back into ashes, only to climb and clamber once more. Maybe that’s what he should’ve been doing – glancing at the cinders he’d been left within, and then stoking, kindling, inciting –
The request bounded against his senses, and so he gave them the sun. The fire churned wildly, ascending towards the top portions, where the flames were twisted and turned into celestial beacons, where rays might’ve spread, where the lunar abyss had no place.
Pretty people incited a snort, and the what is she like beckoned against his ruminations. “Vain.” A truth; Safrin enjoyed looking upon herself. “But will give souls her time.” She had done the same for him, after all, even if he wouldn’t fall to his knees before her and regard himself as one of hers. Instead, they’d concocted weapons together. Doors. Swords. Death. “Wise. Probably.” Maybe. He didn’t know who had wisdom or sagacity anymore. It certainly wasn’t him. “They know things.” A simple answer from a mind overwrought and torn apart.
09-28-2020, 10:04 PM (This post was last modified: 09-28-2020, 10:04 PM by Loren.)
like thunder gonna shake the ground
Loren stared at the flames. Mouth open and tongue lolling out, he reached up to try and touch it but it was too far and the angle was all wrong for this body. Beautifullll.
The lion bobbed his head up and down, the human motion looking comical. Pretty people, yeah! Deimoose and Black Star and Shieldy and Sunyaddayaddayadda and Ollie-lolly and more I think. Whining a bit, Loren pawed at the ground. He stilled at Deimos' explanation though. Nobody can be as pretty as her.
Growling a bit, he swiped at a nearby snowbank. They know things. But they're not human. Never think they might have human feelings.
Amusement abounds as he hears Loren's explanation, the purring roll of beautifullll sounding in his mind. Further amusement is had as the healer labels the Sword Deimoose, and had he held human form, Chulane would have chuckled properly for the first time in what felt like an age. It was something he almost expected Kia might say or think, or share with him across the bond, taunting and teasing in that loving way they had, including Deimos because he held such a large part of her heart, and by default, Chulane's as well.
He hid his emotions away when the amusement and platonic affection cascaded into something more sombre, into nostalgia and grief and that yawning sense of numbness. For while he enjoyed the moment, he still went to share it with her, still reached out for her across the bond, and was still surprised when she wasn't there to hear or feel him. He locked it all away, and let himself focus on the topic he himself had raised to the others.
The moose tilted his massive head in curiosity at the lion, a notably avian gesture for one so antlered. Then the great ears swivel to the Sword, to capture his words, and the Chief digests all the information proffered with quiet contemplation. 'What sorts of feelings do they have?' Perhaps it was foolish, to ask such philosophical things of the delirious, or perhaps it was the mark of a true philosopher that he asked it. 'Did the gods create their heralds?'
Had Deimos been of sound mind in that moment, he might’ve laughed at every absurdity too – from being called a moose (which called back to a former time, a former land, a former world he’d never see again) or pretty people. It was very doubtful the Sword had ever been heralded as a thing of beauty either.
But as the flames rose, as he permitted them to remain unhinged, unfurled, reaching, reaching, reaching for the stars, Chulane’s inquiries resounded and ricocheted through his mind. The ritual of fire and conflagration burst into brilliant streams of blinding hues, kindling and inciting them to be considered as auroras, as blistering figments across the sky, calling back to the Basin, as if coaxing his ghosts, his promised comrades, his beloved friends that could never return, to covet the earth.
Under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer the questions. They were for those of Natural inclinations, who’d lived and breathed and been born in these lands, not taken from everything they’d ever known. “Maybe they have human feelings?” Had he seen Safrin become angry, or upset? Had she once been sad? Were they like them at all? Did it matter, when one was infinite, eternal, and immortal? “Perhaps they were born like us? Or came into being.” And there he allowed a star pattern to explode – and perilously fall through a manifestation of a tower – like the Spire – reliving a moment when a goddess fell from the sky.
Yawning, Loren settled to the ground. He began to groom his paws and his mane as best he could, licking them and running his claws through and across them. At Chulane's question and Deimos' response, however, the lion looked up. The Voice was a human once. That's why the rest of them hate her, remember? He made a chuffing sound.
Lowering his head again, he licked his lips. Not human, he insisted. They all have spheres and wants and desires and domains. But they're not human. He growled a bit, deep in his throat, but subsided as Astra bleated at him and placed a hoof on his side.
Falling silent, his eyes tracked the fire comet that descended from the sky above them. Can I have some fire too? Or is it just for Saffron?
He watched the fire with a quiet fascination and awe, his eyes shifting skywards. His normally icy gaze appeared a deep indigo as the golden flames reflected in them, his antlers casting stark, sharp and pointed shadows as the conflagration before them turned and churned, rose higher and higher into the twilight sky above. A deep sigh puffed a cloud of icy mist before his nostrils, which reflected golden in the light of the flames that danced before him. And he listened to their words on the gods and the heralds, and the mention of the Voice gave him pause.
Did the heralds have flaws? Did they consider humans flawed, beneath them?
Were humans beneath them?
Coming from a world where gods were but a human invention, it was still hard for him to digest at times that there were beings out there bigger, stronger and infinitely more powerful than he or anyone else. Slowly, he got used to the idea, his recent experience with Frey helping, but every now and then the questions rose up again, and he wasn't sure what his whole feelings on the matter were. 'The fire is only for Safrin,' Chulane said automatically, firmly insisting on the idea. Towers of fire were all well and good, but only if they were aimed at the empty sky above, and not at people, no matter the 'consent' given.
'Are we just pawns in their great game? Or parasites who rely on them to survive?' It was definitely not the time to have such an existential crisis, and yet, here they were.
Blinking slowly, eyes conflicted around firelight, the beast tilted his head a fraction, studying, perusing, captivating, calculating, when one could only guess what ran through his head. Stories and myths, legends and tales, truths and falsehoods could have all punctured and pierced around his skull, fracturing and bending, guiding and igniting, and there he stood before towers of flames and infernos as if he were a part of its eternal flame. “The Voice was Abandoned too. That is why they do not like us.” Magic, magic, magic, and therein he sneered and snickered, permitting the ascension of the conflagration, higher and higher and higher as the embers followed the refrains in his head; Safrin colliding into the Spire, the hole widening and opening on stars and patterns, the tulmhainar freed to see the sky one last time.
But Chulane’s inquiry sparked something, and the fire sputtered in little torrents of rage instead of the calm, peaceful entity; an alarming resemblance of dragons, of mountains, of a time long since passed but embedded in his brain. A growl lingered and lowered from his chest, rising over bones and fire, eyes narrowing to a threatening degree – not to anyone in particular – but the idea. “I refuse to be a pawn.” Regardless if he’d already been made one, if he was just another piece no one cared about, shifting to a certain point, before he too was decimated, destroyed, or left to rot and waste away.
Whining a bit, Loren reached up for the pillar of fire, though he didn't actually move from his spot, so he wasn't close enough to touch. Why can't I have the fire? Is it because we're making saffron chicken? Lowering his paw, he looked between the man moose and the moose moose.
And they don't like us because of our mortal concerns, the healer chimed in right on the heels of the Sword's statement.
Chuffing out some air, the Firebrand pawed at the ground. I was raised to be a knight. But I think I got taken off the board. Maybe because I am a parasite. Sinking down, he put his paws over his eyes and shivered.
